idk

The air in the abandoned asylum was thick with more than just dust and the lingering scent of decay. It was heavy with the kind of silence that precedes a storm—a pressure building between two people that had nothing to do with the spirits they were supposedly hunting.

Sam adjusted the straps of his backpack, the fabric straining against the muscles of his shoulders. The flashlight in his hand flickered, casting a harsh, artificial glow over his pale features. His blonde hair was slightly disheveled from hours of trekking through the dark, and his blue eyes were wide, though not entirely from fear.

A few paces behind him, Colby moved with a calculated, predatory grace. His dark hair fell over his eyes, shielding his expression, but the intensity of his gaze was palpable even in the gloom. He wore a faded black denim jacket over a band tee, the epitome of the grunge aesthetic that had become his second skin. He wasn't leading the way, but he was the anchor, the presence that Sam could feel humming against his back like a live wire.

"I think the K2 meter spiked over by that door," Sam said, his voice dropping to a low murmur that echoed off the peeling wallpaper.

Colby didn't answer immediately. He stepped closer, closing the gap until the heat radiating from his body was impossible to ignore. "Did it?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sent a shiver straight down Sam's spine. "Or are you just looking for an excuse to get me into a smaller room?"

Sam turned, his back hitting the cold, damp stone of the corridor wall. He looked up at Colby, his blue eyes searching the darker ones for a hint of a joke, but he found only a burning, focused intent. The sexual tension that had been simmering between them for months—through every video, every road trip, every shared hotel bed—was finally reaching its boiling point.

"Maybe I am," Sam challenged, his voice surprisingly steady despite the way his heart was drumming against his ribs. "What are you going to do about it, Brock?"

Colby leaned in, bracing one hand on the wall next to Sam’s head. The grunge aesthetic wasn't just a look; it was an energy. He looked like trouble, the kind of trouble Sam had been craving for a long time.

"I think you’ve been talking too much for the cameras tonight, Sammy," Colby whispered, his breath hot against Sam's ear. "I think you need to be quiet for a little while."

Sam’s breath hitched. He liked it when Colby took charge of the space, even if they both knew who really pulled the strings in their dynamic. Colby was the one who would pin him down, the one who would take what he wanted, but he did it because Sam allowed him to. Sam was the one who set the pace, the one who invited the chaos.

"Make me," Sam dared, his hands reaching out to grip the lapels of Colby’s jacket.

Colby didn't hesitate. He crashed his lips against Sam's, a messy, desperate collision that tasted like adrenaline and mint. Sam groaned into the kiss, his fingers digging into the denim, pulling Colby closer until there was no daylight left between them. The blonde’s worked-out frame was solid under Colby’s touch, a contrast to the pale, almost ethereal glow he seemed to have in the moonlight filtering through the cracked windows.

Colby pulled back just an inch, his thumb tracing Sam’s lower lip. "You’ve been wanting this all day. I could see it in the way you were looking at me while we were setting up the gear. You’re a needy little thing, aren't you?"

Sam flushed, a deep red creeping up his neck. "Shut up, Colby."

"No, I don't think I will," Colby said, his voice dropping into that dark, dirty register that always made Sam’s knees weak. "I think I’m going to tell you exactly how you look right now. You look wrecked. You look like you’re dying for me to put my hands all over you."

He suited the action to the word, his hands sliding down Sam’s chest, feeling the hard lines of his abdomen through the thin fabric of his shirt. Sam let out a shaky breath, his head falling back against the wall.

"You like that, don't you?" Colby murmured, his lips grazing Sam’s jawline. "Knowing that I’m the only one who gets to see you like this. Not the fans, not the crew. Just me."

"Colby, please," Sam whispered, his eyes fluttering shut.

"Please what, Sammy? Use your words," Colby teased, though his grip on Sam’s waist tightened, his knuckles white.

"Don't stop," Sam said, his voice cracking. "I want to feel you. All of you."

Colby let out a low, dark chuckle. He loved the way Sam crumbled under the weight of his words. He loved that he could be the one to provide the release Sam so clearly needed. Despite his grunge, laid-back exterior, Colby was a force of nature when he wanted to be, and right now, he wanted to consume Sam entirely.

"I’m going to leave marks on you that the cameras won't be able to hide," Colby promised, his voice a dangerous promise. "I’m going to make sure you remember this every time you look in the mirror for the next week."

He moved his mouth back to Sam’s, this time slower, more deliberate. His tongue swept against Sam’s, tasting the desperation and the heat. Sam’s hands moved from the jacket to Colby’s hair, his fingers tangling in the dark locks, pulling Colby even deeper into the kiss.

The resolved tension was explosive. Every brush of skin, every whispered word of filth, felt like a match being struck in a room full of gasoline.

"You’re so beautiful when you’re desperate," Colby whispered against his skin, moving his kisses down to the sensitive dip of Sam’s collarbone. "I bet you’ve been thinking about this every time we’re in the dark together. Every time we’re 'ghost hunting,' you’re really just hunting for me to touch you."

Sam let out a choked sound, half-sob and half-laugh. "You’re such an asshole."

"Yeah, but I’m your asshole," Colby countered, his hands sliding lower, gripping Sam’s thighs and hoisting him up.

Sam instinctively wrapped his legs around Colby’s waist, his back pressing harder into the wall. The position was vulnerable, exposing him completely to Colby’s gaze, but Sam thrived in it. He loved the power Colby exerted over him, the way he could be made to feel so small and yet so completely seen.

"Look at me, Sam," Colby commanded.

Sam opened his blue eyes, hazy with lust and longing.

"I’ve got you," Colby said, his voice softening just a fraction, though the intensity remained. "I’ve got you, and I’m not letting go until you’re completely spent."

"Then do it," Sam breathed, his hands gripping Colby’s shoulders. "Do whatever you want to me."

Colby didn't need to be told twice. He began to move, his words turning darker, more explicit, painting a picture of exactly what he intended to do to Sam in the shadows of the asylum. He spoke of the ways he would make Sam scream his name, the ways he would explore every inch of his pale skin until Sam was nothing but a shivering mess of sensation.

The dirty talk was a catalyst, breaking down the final barriers of Sam’s restraint. He was a bottom who relished the surrender, who found strength in the way he could provoke such a raw, primal reaction from a man like Colby.

As the wind howled through the broken rafters of the asylum, the two of them were lost in a world of their own making. The ghosts of the past were forgotten, replaced by the very real, very electric presence of two souls finally colliding after a lifetime of waiting.

"You’re mine, Sammy," Colby growled, his teeth grazing the shell of Sam’s ear.

"Always," Sam replied, his voice a ragged vow. "Always yours."

In the darkness, surrounded by the echoes of the dead, Sam and Colby found a life that was more vibrant, more terrifying, and more beautiful than anything they had ever captured on film. The tension was gone, replaced by a fire that threatened to burn them both to the ground, and neither of them was interested in putting it out.